Under Silver Moon and Golden Sun
by geek-chick
Summary: In the last years of the Second Age, Isildur and his wife reflect on the past and look forward to a hope of the future.  Rated T for violence and sensuality.
1. Under the Silver Moon

_**Under Silver Moon and Golden Sun**_

**Author's Note:** This story uses the character I created for Isildur's wife in my story _Flowers of Nimloth_; however, you do not need to read _Flowers of Nimloth_ to read this story. But I will warn you that some of the flashbacks in this story will give away parts of the ending of _Flowers of Nimloth_.

The timeline and other information for this story are taken from _The Silmarillion_, the Appendices to LOTR, and HOME XII. The rest is simply my own speculation.

**Part 1: Under the Silver Moon**

The sun rests low in the sky, her rays barely topping the hills that encircle the great city of Annúminas, nestled deep in the valleys of Arnor. Nearby Lake Nenuial is already under the hill's shadows, but the light of the golden sun still reaches the face of the woman standing on a high balcony in the king's tower.

Lienilde closes her eyes, absorbing the sun's warmth. This is only her second evening in the city, so far from the lands of Gondor where she has made her home for the last century, and even further from the fallen isle of Númenor where she spent her early years. Yet she is reminded that the sun is one of the few constants in her life, something that has always been with her, in whatever faraway lands in which she has lived. For she has traveled through many lands, and while all have many memories, both incredibly loving and horribly painful, none of them can compare to this valley and the peace that fills it.

She sighs. It seems like so many years ago that she lived in the splendor of Númenor, once the Land of Gift, now Akallabêth, The Downfallen, Mar-nu-Falmar in the tongue of the Dúnedain. Many happy memories of that land fill her heart: memories of her childhood, her parents and siblings, the early years of her marriage, and the birth of their first child. She lived in Númenor during the height of its prosperity, and never did she have any want for food, clothing, or shelter -- things that were much harder to come by here on the shores of Middle-Earth. The early years of her life were full of joy, for her young eyes could not fully see the darkness that surrounded her.

For by her day, Númenor's bliss had all but faded -- slowly, steadily, unnoticeable in the bustle of daily life, and hidden by the wealth of the land. Yet those whose hearts were untainted and whose memories reached far could see the changes, and they mourned. For Lienilde had also lived during the height of Sauron's rule, and ever did the Faithful fear his persecution. She had known righteous men who were sacrificed on Sauron's altar to Melkor, and she had known men who could have been righteous if only they had possessed the strength to defy Sauron's rule. But the Faithful were truly a remnant, for the number of those who worshiped the Dark Lord Melkor side-by-side with Sauron far outnumbered those who stayed true to Eru.

And to think of Númenor's Fall -- Ai! Tears slip down her cheeks as she remembers the terror: the tremendous, crashing waves cast up by the sinking island; the fearful flight to Middle-Earth in ships that barely withstood the raging waters; and most of all, the despair of knowing that most of her family and friends had fallen to the depths of the sea with that glorious but tarnished isle.

The sun finishes her descent behind the hilltops, and the cool shadow on Lienilde's face slowly pulls her mind from her sorrowful memories. She glances up to the sky. It is a clear night; the sky is purple and black with a warm orange glow above the western hills. Bright Eärendil already shines in the east as he begins his trek across the sky, and the silver moon glows faintly above.

The moon! The moon has also been a constant in Lienilde's life; indeed, it is more precious to her than the sun will ever be. The Elves name the moon Ithil, and recall tales of the Maia Tilion, who sails the skies each night carrying the last flower of the great tree Telperion. Yet the moon, and indeed even Telperion itself, mean so much more to Lienilde! For many years ago, on that fallen isle of Númenor, Isildur nearly gave his life to rescue a fruit of Nimloth, the White Tree of Númenor. Legend says that Nimloth was a descendent of Galathilion, made in the image of Telperion, the White Tree of Valinor. Surely Yavanna herself had a hand in Nimloth's creation, and Isildur alone preserved its line by his valor.

Lienilde had been only a young woman at the time, a healer's apprentice who was called upon to tend to the injured young man, but the healer and patient formed a bond that had yet to be broken. She had always admired the courage Isildur had shown on that fateful night in the courts of Armenelos, and now she knew that that courage was just a foreshadowing of the great king that he was now becoming.

_Devoted to the Moon_: that is what Isildur's name means in the Common Tongue, and Lienilde has never been able to look upon fair Ithil without thinking of her beloved husband. Indeed, it was under moonlight and starlight that he asked for her hand in marriage, and it is under that same light when she finds him the most beautiful now.

She turns her eyes from the sky and looks down to the lake below, yet her mind's eye still sees the moon and remains lost in memories. Minis Ithil, Tower of the Moon -- that is what Isildur had named the tower he built when he established his kingdom in Gondor, and Ithilien was forever after the name of the nearby lands. Though his throne had been in Osgiliath, his heart had remained in Minis Ithil. It was there that Isildur planted the White Tree of Gondor, the seedling of Nimloth that he brought across the seas. Lienilde spent much time in that tower with her husband, and their third son was even born there. Even though the tower was nigh to the borders of Mordor, she had always felt safe behind its great stone walls.

O, bright Minis Ithil! That place too has fallen to Sauron's evil. Once light and fair under the silver moon, it is now dark with evil and black with ashes. Tears come once more to Lienilde's eyes. Is no land safe from the threat of Sauron? Is there no place the Faithful can hide where he cannot find them? For the Second Dark Lord escaped the Drowning of Númenor and followed the Elendili even to the shores of Middle-Earth. Mordor was refortified, and stood as a constant threat to the kingdom of Gondor which Isildur and his brother Anárion defended for so long. Yet in the end, Sauron was victorious once again.

Lienilde closes her eyes, trying to forget her last night in the tower of Minas Ithil: for after many long battles, Sauron's forces finally breached the great tower, the tower that she thought would never fall. No matter how hard she tries to forget, she will always remember the cries of the defeated, dying soldiers of Gondor; the clanging swords and harsh laughter of the Orcs; the sickening smoke and great red flame as the White Tree burned in the night. Yet Isildur had shown foresight once again, and had hidden away a seedling of the tree before the attack. As Isildur and his family fled the tower to the ships waiting for them on the River Anduin, he brought the seedling with him, praying that the next generation of Nimloth's line would survive.

After a long and hazardous flight to the north, Lienilde and her husband, with their three sons and a few faithful men, finally arrived in the shelter of Annúminas, just one night prior. Her husband and sons had been in council with Elendil all day, and she had been left alone to wander the halls of the tower and the shores of Lake Nenuial. She had found the shoreline peaceful, relaxing, and soon the Enemy had seemed so far away, despite the vivid memories of his attacks. Yet now that night has fallen, the solitude of the lake no longer comforts her. She stands on the balcony to the room that Elendil had given her and her husband, and now she longs for the comfort of her beloved's arms.

As if bidden by her thoughts, at that moment she feels a warm hand rest on her cold shoulder. She smiles but does not turn yet. Isildur moves to stand beside her, and slides his arm down to her waist, where he grips her firmly.

"It is a cold night," he says, staring out across the lake, wondering what sight has captured his wife's attention.

"And your arms are warm," she replies, nestling into his arms, and after a short moment she finally turns to face him. He turns also. He is dressed in a silver and blue tunic loaned to him by his father earlier that day, and the Elendilmir shines bright on his brow. The light of Elendilmir, the stars, and the moon mingle in his hair and sparkle in his eyes, and once again Lienilde is struck by his kingly presence. How different he seems now, compared to the young man she once knew in the land of Númenor!

"How have the councils gone?" she finally asks after a moment of silence. Neither wishes to dwell on the terrible events that brought them to these councils; yet both fear to ignore the future.

"Father and I spoke for many long hours," he replies, "though little was decided. There are many whom we wish to consult with who are not here now. We have sent messengers to the High Elven King Gil-galad, and to the Lord Elrond in Imladris, and to many others."

After a slight pause, Lienilde says hesitantly, "Yet you will return and fight, no matter who will come with you."

"You are perceptive," he answers, with the slightest hint of a smile. Yet that smile fades as soon as it appears. "My brother cannot hold Sauron back forever, and I cannot leave him alone to that task."

"I know." Isildur's free hand is resting on the balcony's rail -- for the first is still on her waist -- and she grasps it in both of her hands. She knows the pain that her husband feels, as he thinks of his only brother Anárion, alone in Gondor without his brother or father, struggling to dam the tide of Sauron's constant attacks. Her husband will never be content in the safety of Annunimas while his brother is in danger. And she knows that Anárion would do the same, were he in his brother's place: she still remembers the pain in Anárion's eyes when Isildur lay near death after taking the fruit of Nimloth. There is a great bond between the two brothers, so strong that sometimes she doubts which tie is stronger: the bond with his brother, or the ones with his sons and wife. Yet over the years, she has come realize that perhaps no one is stronger than the other: perhaps they are simply different.

Lienilde looks into her husband's eyes once more, and suddenly she sees a different kind of sorrow: while a moment ago it was clear that his mind was far away in Gondor, now she can see that his sorrow is focused here, on her. She knows then what he fears: he fears for his brother in battle, but he also fears for his wife's safety in these terrible times. When he leaves for battle, she knows he will want her to stay in the protection of the North, yet neither know how they will bear the separation. Even during Sauron's worst assaults on Gondor, they knew that the other was at most only a few leagues away. Though Lienilde's heart filled with fear each time her husband and sons went into battle, being so near to them was a small comfort that she had never recognized until this moment. This time when her beloved and her sons go to war, it will be to the far ends of Middle-Earth. Whether the war went good or ill, it would likely be a year or more before she learned of it -- a year or more here alone in the bright North, waiting for news from the dark South.

"I love you, Lienilde," Isildur says, drawing her even closer to him. "But I fear--"

"Sssh," she whispers, and brings a hand to his lips. "I know what you fear, for I fear it too. But let us forget our fears for one night. We are far away and safe in the North, and let us enjoy what little time we may have here."

Isildur finally smiles, for the first time that evening. They stand a moment in silence, as they realize nothing more needs to be said: they each know the other's fears, thoughts, and desires. Lienilde then releases his hand from hers, and he brings his hand up beside her face, pulling her in for a long, slow kiss.

When they finally draw apart, Lienilde reaches up and gently takes the Elendilmir from Isildur's brow. Isildur smiles again, for he knows that she has always preferred him without his kingly raiment. Without the bright light of the Elendilmir, the moon and stars are free to shine fully in his dark hair and grey eyes. She smiles too: seeing him so always brings to mind that night under the stars when they were betrothed, and he knows this.

Isildur then wraps his arm around her once more, and leads her from the cold balcony to the warmth of their room, where small, flickering flames already fill the fireplace. She places the Elendilmir on a bedside table, then he draws her into a tight embrace, and soon they are kissing once more -- not the slow, languid kiss they shared on the balcony, but the kiss of two lovers who have spent many nights together over the long years, who suddenly realize that their time together will not last forever. Laces on tunic and dress are untied as each pair of hands searches the other's body, each spouse longing to preserve every touch, every curve, even every scar, to memory forever.

It is not until late into the night that they finally fall asleep, safe and warm in each other's arms. Yet little do they know that the child they conceived this night will one day be the High King of the Men of the West, the hope of the Exiled Dúnedain.


	2. Under the Golden Sun

**Part 2: Under the Golden Sun**

Isildur sits alone in the dark, not noticing the cold for the warmth of the fresh tears on his cheeks. The tent flaps are tied closed, but it matters little, for here in the heart of Mordor the sun never pierces the darkness of Sauron's sorcery.

Six years. Six long years it has been since this terrible siege began. How many more until it ends? How many more men must give their lives to see Sauron defeated? Or have these long years been only in vain?

Six years ago Isildur had a great hope: the Battle of Dagorlad had been long, terrible, and bloody, yet the Last Alliance had seen the victory, though at a great cost. Sauron had been driven back to his fortress of Barad-dûr and Minas Ithil had been reclaimed. Isildur had been confident that they would soon see Sauron's downfall, but his father Elendil had warned him to be patient, for Barad-dûr would prove to be stronger than Isildur had ever imagined.

Yet today with the death of only one man, his hope is quickly fading: for that man was Anárion, his only brother. Isildur thinks back to the many years they had shared together: their childhood on the fallen isle of Númenor, their time of ruling Gondor from their thrones in Osgiliath and from their separate towers of Minas Anor and Minas Ithil, and finally these last six years of battle. Yet Sauron had always been there, a constant threat to the descendants of Eärendil. Isildur and his brother had fought Sauron all their lives, for their battle began when Isildur stole a fruit of Nimloth as a young man in Númenor. They spent their years in Númenor rejecting Sauron's false religion and avoiding the King's Men who sought to capture them and sacrifice them on the altar to Melkor.

When they escaped to the shores of Middle-Earth after the Drowning of Númenor, they thought that they had finally escaped from Sauron's persecution, but they soon discovered that it was not so. For the next century, their rule in Gondor was constantly threatened by Sauron's attacks and the watchful vigilance of the Red Eye. Even after Minas Ithil fell and Isildur escaped to the North, his brother stayed behind and held Sauron at bay for five long years until the Last Alliance arrived and drove the enemy back during the Battle of Dagorlad. Without Anárion's strength ere the battle, Sauron would have taken over all of Gondor, and indeed, his rule may have even reached Arnor and Imladris in the North before he met any challenge. Oh, how Isildur and his brother had longed to see the defeat of the Second Dark Lord after so many years of battle! Yet now it was not to be: Anárion is gone, and Isildur wonders if he too will pass away while Sauron lives on to torment their descendants.

Isildur suddenly slams a fist into the hard dirt below him, angry that Sauron has claimed one of his own family. Anárion was first; who would be next? His sons, his father? Even his wife and youngest son, safe in the valley of Imladris? For if this siege fails, will there be any place in Middle-Earth that is safe from Sauron's terror?

Yet suddenly, Isildur realizes that his brother is not the first: his grandfather Amandil also met his fate defying Sauron's evil. It seems so long ago now that Amandil set sail for Valinor to repeat Eärendil's pleas, a task that none knew would succeed but had to be attempted. At least with his grandfather, Isildur had always held hope that Amandil had found peace at the end of his life, even if his task had failed.

But Anárion! New tears fall from Isildur's eyes as he remembers the fate of his brother just earlier today: a troop of strong Orcs, equipped with new armor and fueled by their rage against the Eldar and the Edain, poured from the steps of Barad-dûr. Isildur and Anárion, along with many of their men, quickly met their attackers in the slopes below the dark tower. Soon the brothers were separated in the battle, but neither feared for the other, for had they not survived six years of battles here in Mordor, and many attacks in the fair land of Gondor the century before? Yet as Isildur slew Orc after Orc, he suddenly heard a sickening crash: the sound of grinding rock, shattering stone, and crushing bones. He turned right and left, searching for his brother in the chaos, but could not find his bright helm amongst the dark Orc heads and swinging black swords. Suddenly he knew: he knew that his brother had fallen, with no warning, before Isildur could even say goodbye. Isildur could not even lay his eyes on his brother's face one last time before it was forever crushed by the stones of Mordor. Tears had nearly blinded his eyes but he fought on, hewing down Orcs at a great speed in his rage, dodging the immense stones being thrown from Barad-dûr only by the grace of Eru.

Finally, the battle was over, the Orcs all slain or hidden back within the darkness of the tower. Elendil then found his surviving son, and together they embraced and wept in the destruction and gore of the battlefield. Later that day a great funeral pyre was built, for no grave could be dug in the hard dirt, and no righteous man should lie in the blackness of Mordor for eternity. There before the bright flames, father and brother bid farewell to youngest son and only brother.

O, bright Anárion, Son of the Sun! The flames that bore your body to Eru were truly bright enough to rival Anar herself! Isildur closes his eyes, trying to imagine the sun after six years in the darkness of Mordor. Lienilde had always told him that the light of the moon shone like silver in his eyes, but Isildur had always thought that the light of the sun shone even brighter in Anárion's eyes. How could two brothers be so similar, yet so different? Like the sun and the moon -- both lighting the world, but in their own way, and at their own time.

And now the sun's flame is quenched; only the moon remains. The glimpses of the golden sun that Isildur had seen in Anárion's eyes had brought him comfort in this dark land, and now that light was gone. What shall come next? Isildur finally forces himself to think of the future under only the light of the moon. He knows he must bring these terrible tidings to Anárion's wife, who now stands watching the black clouds of Mordor from the heights of Minas Anor, waiting for news of the war. Even his own wife Lienilde will be heartbroken, for she has known Anárion for as many years as she has known her husband. Yet would news even reach them? Throughout the siege, Isildur occasionally sent messengers bearing letters from the soldiers to wives and children in Osgiliath and Minas Anor, even as far as Imladris and Arnor. Yet not all of the messengers returned, and Isildur wonders how many widows still hold hope that their beloveds yet live.

The thought of his wife suddenly brings an altogether different longing: he wishes that she was here with him, that he could feel the warmth of her body against his, and hear the musical notes in her soft voice. For if he and his brother were the Moon and the Sun, Lienilde was a Star, for she stood strong and still throughout the horrors she had witnessed. Lienilde had always said that her husband was a comfort to her in all of the terrible times they had experienced in their years together, yet what he had never had the courage to tell her was that she was a great comfort to him, as well. He wondered if she knew this. His pride had prevented him from telling her, for in a corner of his mind he still wished to appear as the strong, supportive husband. If he could not be strong for his wife, how could he ever be strong for his soldiers, his kingdom? Yet Lienilde had always been perceptive of his thoughts, and he hopes that she understands. He suddenly resolves that if ever this siege should end, if ever he could return to his wife in Imladris, he will tell her. He will tell her that she provides him with strength as well, that she has helped him through as many dark times as he has helped her. Most of all, he simply longs to tell her that he loves her.

Lienilde had even offered to come with him, to leave the safety of Imladris for the destruction of Mordor, to use her healer's skills to help the many that were to fall in battle. While Isildur longs to see her face again, he could never have let her come here, for he had seen the fear in her eyes as Minas Ithil fell even as she led her family to safety, and he could not bear to see that fear cloud her eyes again. Of course Lienilde did not expect her husband to agree when she asked to come: for if she left for the war, who would care for their new son Valandil?

Valandil! Isildur's thoughts suddenly shift to his youngest son. Valandil was barely more than a babe when Isildur marched to war six years ago. He wonders how his son has grown, and hopes he is still the innocent, happy child that he left behind in the shelter of Imladris, safe from the horrors of war that his father has seen every day since he left. Does Valandil even remember his father? His elder brothers? Or is his quiet life with his mother all that he remembers? Does Valandil remember stories about his uncle Anárion, whom he never met, and will he grieve when he hears of his fate at the steps of Barad-dûr?

Finally, after many long moments -- or hours, he knows not -- the tears stop falling from Isildur's eyes, and he wipes his face clean. He stands and walks to the door of his tent, and after a moment, musters the courage to open the flap.

The sight before him is not unexpected, yet it still pains his heart: the black plains are covered with makeshift tents and campsites, torn and battered after many battles. The few healers rush to and fro, trying to tend to all of the injured. Soldiers sit and wipe black Orc blood from their weapons, or talk to one another in low voices, or simply stare blankly at the heights of Barad-dûr above them or the dark clouds and mountains surrounding them. Elves and Men dwell together, yet the light in the Elves' eyes seems fainter than it was a few years before, and even less light shines in the eyes of the Men. Elendil and Gil-galad are not to be seen, but a light burns in Gil-galad's tent and Isildur knows his father is taking council with the Elven King, even on the night of his youngest son's death. Isildur wonders where his son Elendur is, and Anárion's son -- surely the young men grieve for the loss of their uncle and father -- but they are hidden among the many folk who walk through the camp. He will seek them out later, but for now he wishes to simply stand here alone.

Isildur glances to the sky, longing for the light of the sun, or even the moon, but knowing he can see neither until the Enemy is defeated. But with that thought, Isildur suddenly knows what he will do: if he survives this war, if Sauron is defeated, he will bring Nimloth's seedling to Minas Anor. The Tower of the Moon may have been defiled by Sauron's evil, but the Tower of the Sun yet stands watchful; and the white seedling, memory of distant Telperion, still lives in Osgiliath, where Isildur left it guarded before the Battle of Dagorlad. There in Minas Anor Isildur will plant the seedling in memory of his brother, so that as long as men yet live who defy the Darkness, the golden Sun and the silver Moon will dwell together, a vision of hope for the Men of the West.

**Author's Notes: **

I could not find any information in Tolkien's writings about what happened to the White Tree's seedling between the time that Isildur took it to Arnor and the time that he planted it in Minas Anor. Obviously he had to bring it south when he went to war, and I am only guessing that he would have left it in Osgiliath while he fought in Mordor.

Also, a few quick notes for anyone who may have forgotten:

Minas Ithil ("Tower of the Moon") - former name of Minas Morgul ("Tower of Sorcery")

Minas Anor ("Tower of the Sun") - former name of Minis Tirith ("Tower of Guard")

In case anyone is wondering why I only mentioned Elendur at the end of this chapter, Tolkien notes that Aratan and Ciryon (Isildur's middle two sons) stayed behind to guard Minas Ithil after it was reclaimed in the Battle of Dagorlad.


End file.
